


Harry and The Hunters

by thesassywallflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Dean and Donna Go Fishing, F/M, No For Reals This Is Complete Crack, Only The Tiniest Whispers of Romance, honestly blink and you'll miss it, mythical creatures, rated mature for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 21:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17353298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesassywallflower/pseuds/thesassywallflower
Summary: Dean tries to convince Donna that some monsters aren't real, but Donna, for all her sweetness, is stubbornly convinced a certain one is real.





	Harry and The Hunters

**Author's Note:**

> *Sheepishly pokes head out* Hi guys, remember me? The slacker who seems to only be able to write something every three months? I'm so sorry. I'm not even going to try to come up with an excuse for my laziness, but as penance here's a DeanxDonna crack!fic one shot. It's extremely light on any romance, but if you close one eye and squint really hard, you'll see it. Oh and when I say crack, I mean crack. I know it's not the next chapter of Doughnuts, but hopefully I'll get one up in the near future. Meanwhile, hope you enjoy this fluffy bit of utter nonsense!
> 
> P.S. This hasn't been beta-ed so the wanton abuse of grammar and punctuation is all mine.

“Yes. They. Are.”

“No, they’re not.”

“You bet my great grandma’s lefse stick they are!”

“Donna. Sasquatches aren’t real. They’re-they’re just _not_ ,” a mostly amused, but slightly annoyed Dean Winchester sighed.

“How do you know? You got proof to back that up, Mr. Tough Guy Hunter?” Donna Hanscum squinted at him.

“Well...no, but-”

“Ha!” the grinning blonde crowed as she took a sip of her beer, her ponytail bouncing triumphantly. “So if _you_ don’t have proof then how do you know they’re not real?”

“Okay fine, but how do you know they’re real? You don’t have any proof either,” Dean scowled, tossing back a handful of bar peanuts. The hunter and the sheriff sat at a high top table in PD Pappy’s enjoying a post-hunt drink. Donna had called him a few days prior asking for a little guidance on a wendigo case. Since things were at a standstill on the most recent apocalypse front, Dean decided to give that guidance in person. He was going stir crazy as it was. Too much time alone with his thoughts was never a good thing for him and those around him. He’d tried to get his brother to come along too. After all, Sam could use a little distraction, but he was neck deep in research for said apocalypse and wouldn’t even entertain the thought of taking on a normal case. 

Or what used to be their normal... 

Now their normal was working through the tantrums of celestial siblings and playing defense against British douchebags. And not just any douchebags. Oh no! British douchebag hunters who wanted to annihilate their American counterparts. Because of this, he actually missed going out on a run of the mill monster hunt. Blame it a case of nostalgia, but when Donna called, he jumped at the chance to hit the road. 

Donna set her beer on the table and leveled him with one those rare piercing looks of hers. Normally she was all Pollyanna cheerfulness, but sometimes...sometimes… God, it sounded so cliche, but sometimes, the sunniness would fade and it felt like she could see his soul, every damned, tarnished inch of it. “But I do. I’ve seen the proof with my own eyes.”

Goosebumps crawled across his arms at her earnestness, but he cleared them away with a shrug of his shoulders, “ _What?!_ No, you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have, Dean,” she leaned forward. “About 15 years back, I found a set of footprints while out pheasant hunting with my dad. Those prints were-were huge. There’s no way they could’ve belonged to a human. Dad saw them too. He tried telling me they were probably part of a hoax that some knuckleheads made up, but I knew they weren’t.”

“Donna, look. There’s a lot of things in our world that shouldn’t be real yet are. But. Bigfoot, yetis, swamp apes, sasquatches, or whatever aren’t. Trust me. Every fucking hunter out there has their own tale about a Harry and The Hendersons hunt, and every single time it turns out to be nothing. It all starts out when some sad sack bastard with a hard-on for camo has way too much to drink and one too many joints at a backwoods kegger. He wanders out into the woods to take a piss, sees a tree stump covered in moss, and suddenly, the stump comes to life and is asking for a joint of its own. He freaks out, and he and his drunk buddies hightail it out of the forest, scared out of their fucking minds. Then it’s all over the local paper, _BIGFOOT SIGHTED. FAN OF THE DEVIL’S LETTUCE_.” 

Donna snorted, but he trudged on, trying his best to convince her, “Of course, then someone ends up calling one of us, and we have to take time out of tracking down real monsters to calm small town fears. But it always turns up to either be a stump or some weirdo in a gilly suit.”

“So you’re saying I just made up what I saw? That I’m lying?” she cocked an eyebrow, and he instantly felt like a little boy trying to convince his mom that he wasn’t the one who broke the kitchen window.

“No. No! I’m just sayin’ that the woods can play tricks on your senses. It’s easy to see things that aren’t there. A stump turns into a bear. A squirrel knocking a dead branch off a tree turns into a footstep. A-a bear’s paw print turns into a yeti print. You know what I mean. We’ve all been there.”

For all his convincing, the scowling sheriff was unmoved, “I know what I saw, Dean, and I saw a bigfoot’s prints. And you know what? Now I’m gonna prove it to you.”

***

First: it was the stench of a thousand junior high boy's locker rooms that hit his nostrils. 

Second: it was the 8-foot tall breathing shag carpet in his peripheral vision. 

Third: it was the fishing rod tumbling out of Donna’s hands as she gaped, mocha eyes as wide as the Impala’s headlights, at something far above his head. 

NO. 

FUCKING. 

WAY. 

There was no fucking way in hell that Donna was right. It simply wasn’t possible, but as he reluctantly turned his head and looked up...waaay up...at a pair of beady eyes set in a hair covered face staring back down at him, there was no denying it. Harry was real. 

Not even thinking, Dean pitched his fishing rod at Chewbacca and lurched to his feet, tripping over the tackle box as he grasped Donna’s arm and jerked her to her feet. Without wasting another second he took off running, hauling her along with him. If it had been any other creature he would’ve been firing round after round at it, but something told him bullets would be hard pressed to puncture that matted hide. Besides, like an absolute idiot, he’d left his revolver in Donna’s truck. He hadn’t made an amateur move like that since he twenty. When Donna suggested they take a day trip to her favorite little lake off the North Shore for some walleye fishing, he’d thought he’d be safe not packing his sidearm for a few hours. Besides, he kind of liked the thought of spending time with her that was completely free of any traces of their jobs. Fucking idiot move that was. Now they had a sasquatch literally breathing down their necks.

“I WAS RIIIIGGGHHHTTTT!!” Donna screeched in gleeful terror as she barrelled past him down the dirt path, slender tree branches whipping at her face. 

“NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO RUB IT IT IN!” Dean bellowed back. He glanced over his shoulder at the rapidly disappearing lakeshore to see the creature sit down on the same boulder his ass had vacated just seconds ago. Then watched it pick up the rod he’d abandoned, reach into the cooler next to the boulder and crack open a cold one. Dean couldn’t stop the incredulous grin from spreading across his face. “You sly bastard,” he panted under his breath as the pair of them continued racing through the woods for Donna’s truck. 

As she wrenched open the driver door, she was wheezing with fear and laughter, tears rolling down her smooth cheeks as she gasped on spasms of giggles. “So ol’ Bigfoot isn’t-” she hiccuped. “-real, huh?”

“Just drive, please,” he ground out as he vaulted into the passenger seat. Shit, shit, shit, FUCKING SHIT. There was no way in hell she was ever going to let him live this down.


End file.
